


No One Cares About Me

by FatyGSquare



Series: Inktober 2019 [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Forced Prostitution, Inktober 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 06:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatyGSquare/pseuds/FatyGSquare
Summary: It's an endless repetition of the same thing, the same day.





	No One Cares About Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Second day of Inktober!! Today the prompt was mindless and it got pretty dark, pretty fast.
> 
> WARNINGS: this story is about PROSTITUTION. If you are not comfortable with it, please please leave.
> 
> As always, English is not my first language, so please forgive any and all mistakes.

There is a routine to it, now.

Wake up, bathe, eat, stretch, walk, bathe again, dress up, line up, customer, clean up, customer, clean up, customer, clean up…

Everyday is the same. Same torture, same pain, same fake pleasure. They wrap him up in expensive silks, belt tied tightly and neatly around his thin waist. There’s a flash of legs when he walks and he knows the reaction it prompts: pupils dilate, they wet their lips, nod approvingly, start bidding for his time.

For his body.

He doesn’t care to count the days anymore, one blending into the other in an endless parade of wasted life. His wasted life. He used to love his body, he used to love dressing up in expensive materials, used to love always looking his best.

But that seems like another lifetime entirely.

He’s tainted where he used to be pure.

He’s used where he used to be brand new.

He’s bruised where he used to be injury free.

He aches where he used to rejoice.

He looks out the barred window and sees the rising sun, shades of orange and blue paint soft-looking clouds, a column of smoke rising in the horizon. There was another bombing last night. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing himself to lock away, to forget his humanity, to become what is expected of him.

A beautiful machine made of flesh and blood. Nothing else, nothing more.

A willing whore, spreading his legs wide for the next man to come and satisfy his hunger.

A shell of who he once was, void of emotion and feeling, deprived of conscience and will.

The door opens and the mask falls in place. Face expressionless, body moving per command, mind shutting down.

He needn’t think or consider the next step. Always the same routine. Always the same day.

Wake up, bathe, eat, stretch, walk, bathe again, dress up, line up, customer, clean up, customer, clean up, customer, clean up…

The man tosses three coins right next to him, but he knows better than to try and take them. He’s still zipping up his fly while he exits his poor excuse of a room. Still, it is better than what others have. He is the most expensive in the house, after all. The perfect specimen, the man who imprisoned him had called him. Beautiful, delicate, fair-skinned, lithe and hairless body.

It’s a well-kept secret, this immoral need some men have to possess a young male body. Everyone knows, no one talks about it. He’s come to find they are all the same, regardless of origin or nationality. Japanese, Chinese, American… All of them are eager to empty their pockets for an hour of his time, for the chance to participate in that illusion in which he is theirs, and they control him.

With time, they do. His body responding to stimuli on its own. Small cock hard between his parted thighs, ass hole twitching and gaping, calling for a piece of meat to fill it again.

He leaves the bed, body aching in protest with every step he takes. He doesn’t bother to cover himself. The door is closed, and it won’t open again until someone pays for him. The basin was filled with fresh water, a small courtesy from the scullery maid his owner keeps. He takes the rough towel and wets it, carefully cleaning his body and drying it with another towel afterwards. There are voices on the other side of the door, and he takes a deep breath.

Here they come again.

He’s on the bed in seconds, taking the position he was taught to, literally beaten to learn. On his knees, torso straight, shoulders back, eyes down. His robe parted just enough to rile up the next customer. The man enters, hand already lost in his pants, the other holding some kind of protection they are given. He supposes he’s lucky in that regard.

The man is next to him shortly afterwards, panting and groaning, his hand leaving his pants with semen sticking to it.

His body goes on autopilot.

Lick the hand, fake moan, lie down, spread your legs, fake moan, feel the stretch, keep tears at bay, fake moan, rock your hips in time, fake moan, praise him when he comes, fake moan, force your body to somehow climax, fake moan.

_Blink them back_, he tells himself, _fight them back, damnit!_

Those small droplets of salty water fighting to pour from his eyes, run down his face.

Tears. His precious, beloved tears.

The only way to proof Yuzuru Hanyu is not mindless.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Hated it? Too much? Please let me know in the comments.


End file.
